Keeping The Hound at Bay
by Kuklitza
Summary: "Foolish little bird," Sandor rasped. "You don't know what it is you want." But he knew what he wanted, and it took all his strength to keep the Hound inside at bay. SanSan, Sandor POV. Starts in KingsLanding pre-war and follows Sandor's struggles with Sansa's budding womanhood, and himself.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story takes place in Kings Landing, and while it is mainly based on the HBO show of Game of Thrones, it draws from scenes in the books of which there are many more between The Hound and Sansa than in the show, which is always good for a SanSan story ;)**

**This story is told entirely from Sandor's POV, and starts on the day of Myrcella being shipped off to Dorne. Initially will follow the book's storyline, but as things develop . . . **

**Enjoy~**

**Chapter 1:**

Sandor woke with an ache in his head, and a worse one in his cock. Rolling over across the rumpled linens he had cast aside in the night, the man they called Hound swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his head rest in his hands. "Fuck," he snarled, elbows driving into his thighs as he cradled his pounding forehead. His dick certainly wanted that fuck, but he pushed the early morning carnal need out of mind as he tried to clear his head of last night's wine.

Rubbing his eyes with roughly calloused palms, Sandor Clegane forced himself from the sagging, straw-filled mattress. It was a shit place to sleep and an even worse one to fuck, but he did little of the first and most of the second in brothels, so it served him well enough. He made no guise to un-rumple the rough linens, bending only to pick up the thick fur pelt from the floor where it had fallen and toss is unceremoniously onto the bed where it joined the rest of the heap.

His feet - one bare, one clothed in the thick, twisted wool of last night's sock - trod across rushes and wineskins as he crossed the span of his room. Sandor tried to ignore the ache in his groin as he forced himself to piss, knowing that would probably be the best release he'd get all day. Fucking his hand got old. Tediously old. And a hand full of burns and scars such as his was hardly as enjoyable as the soft one of a woman's. Whores and brothel girls did their job when he was deep enough in his cups to seek them, but fucking the dry cunts of girls who seemed desperate to look everywhere else,_ anywhere _else, got old after a while too.

Fumbling his way into a pair of black leather trousers and a loose linen shirt, Sandor began the process of becoming the Hound. It started with a pitcher of wine, which his head was grateful for as it ebbed the pain of the last three pitchers. He would regret it later. His mouth twisted into a smirk as he yanked on pieces of boiled leather. '_Aye, and what is my life but a string of fucking regrets?' _

The hound's-head helm sat on a stand beside his bed, alongside one of his swords and a basin that might have held clean water at some time. Being _His Grace_ Joffrey's dog got him the same treatment most knights of the Kingsguard enjoyed- if he'd take it. The last time a serving girl had been in his room to tidy up, she'd moved everything into exactly the most foolish place that could be thought of and managed to cut her hand horrifically on the dagger hidden beneath his pillow. '_Fucking wench,' _he mused, taking the helm under his arm as he left the room behind. 'B_led all over my best pelt.'_

He didn't need a girl to clean up after him. His chambers were no knight's chambers anyway: only the filthy pen of a dog.

His desire quieted for now, the Hound began the morning hunt for food. However, as he stalked heavily through hallways awash with light, he realized morning had long since come and gone.

"Clegane!" The clack of armor and the haughty, angry tromp of boots that followed the outcry of his name made the Hound snarl in a fashion truer to a direwolf than a dog.

"Fuck off, Meryn." Sandor said nothing else, keeping the Hound at bay as he made for outside of the hold that served as his bed and bunker. The King would have him stay in the chambers of the Goldcloaks - A fucking laugh. Sandor would gladly stay with the lower sort. He lived in a room in what had once been an inn, steps from the holdfast's gates. His neighbors were bakers and butchers, armorers and the like with no family of their own, who stayed in the rented rooms as little as he did. While they disliked waking to his thunderous steps at night, while he was drunk and full of curses, they benefited from the protection that came from living a few strides away from the fearsome Hound. They kept their words-and their eyes-to themselves: qualities Sandor enjoyed. Meryn on the other hand seemed disgruntled to be there, his pretty gold cloak trailing behind him as he stepped in pace with the Hound's long, brooding strides.

"Aye, fuck off," he retorted, nearly catching a door in his face as the Hound pushed outside and let the heavy oak swing quickly shut behind him. "And I suppose that's what you'll tell the King, when he asks why no-one's guarding his darling betrothed?"

_'The Stark Girl.' _

Shouldering his way past civilians and into the mid-morning sunlight, Sandor did not respond. Joffrey's betrothed had caused him a great deal of trouble. Her dead eyes could not completely mask the hatred in her voice when she spoke to His Grace, but no matter who well she hid her hatred, Joffrey still found reason to beat her. _'No',_ Sandor scowled, trading a baker a few coppers for a loaf of dark bread. _'I beat her. And fucking Meryn beats her. And his fucking Grace keeps his hands clean.' _

"You've been due on guard duty the past hour. Benton's squire had to bring him a pot in the hallway so he could take a piss." Meryn laughed, and Sandor, who found most expressions of mirth and joy ugly, curled up his lip in constant fashion.

"Aye, and so he sent you to come fetch me." Sandor's voice grated roughly as he wolfed down his bread. "And they call me a dog."

Meryn seemed to find it below him to respond to that. _'But not below him to hit little girls.' _Giving Meryn a gruff, curse-laden dismissal, Sandor stalked towards Maegor's holdfast, where they kept Sansa Stark in her little gilded cage. For all the disgust he felt towards Meryn, Sandor knew it was _he _who was truly was the dog. He had hit the poor girl just the same, and no act of placing a cloak upon her naked shoulders could change the fact that he had stood there while Joffery and half the castle held witness to her shame. Sandor set his jaw, fingertips reflexively closing around the hilt of his sword. When he had brought the girl, all pretty and flushed, to answer for her brother's crimes, he knew a beating was in store for her. He knew dark, painful marks would join those still fading on her stomach and thighs. But when Meryn yanked down her bodice, exposing her breasts to the hungry eyes of the court, her face became as red and pained as any bruise.

Sandor had thought about that chest. Not the way he had seen it in court, as part of a trembling, humiliated girl, but he _had_ thought of it. He thought of it the night he found her coming from the Godswood, the night he noticed what a woman she had become and he let her know it. She had yet to bleed, but all woman could bleed, and he didn't see blood that came from a cunt made a girl any more of a woman than the blood that came from her throat. That night he lead her to her room, and she offered to sing for him, and all he could think about was the song he'd rather have was the one that came from her crying out in bed.

He had fucked his hand twice that night, blind with drink and thoughts of that pretty little bird singing songs in his bed. And in the morning he woke, drank wine to kill his headache, washed his face to kill his shame, pulled on his clothing like every other day, and watched as Meryn beat her and stripped her in the King's court.

Sandor was no fucking septon, but he was going to be damned if he was going to be like _them_, fucking the poor girl in his mind every night with the likes of Meryn and Joffrey. So he put her out of his mind, and found his cock other things to satisfy it.

"Lady Stark." Benton was at the door, shifting listlessly from one foot to the other as he knocked. "Your attendance is _mandatory, _please - ,"

"Saying please to a little girl now, are we?" When Sandor smirked, his lips twisted cruelly across both sides of his face, contorting the scarred side even worse than it already was. Perhaps that explained Benton's suddenly ill expression as he turned from the door. Or perhaps the man just had to take another piss.

"Clegane-"

"Benton."

A hard grey stare was all it took for the guard to clank from the passageway without the slightest scolding. One did not easily scold the Hound.

Raising his fist from the hilt of his sword, Sandor gave the door three solid pounds. The frame vibrated beneath his weight, and a soft gasp escaped from inside. "Girl," he growled. "This time you keep the King _and_ the Queen waiting. I'd wager you know which lion truly has the sharper claws." His voice was a rough rasp through the door, and answered only by the delicate swish of satins and lace.

"I . . .am sorry, Ser." Although her handmaiden opened the door, it was Sansa who ducked into the passageway, finding his left side without hesitation. _'Little bird knows better than to lose her breakfast over my face.' _

With Sansa's hair done up, Sandor could see the pale slope of her neck and flushed tops of her breasts with ease. He couldn't give a fuck what color frock she was wearing, but the bodice of it plunged and tightened over her teats in a way that tested his recent resolve. His cock seemed to want to remind him that it hadn't been satisfied in a while, so he looked away. But the little bird insisted on talking to him, and each time he looked at her to respond, he found himself, a foot and a half taller than she, and gazing down into the soft shadow between her breasts.

"I don't understand why I have to be there," she implored, blue eyes turned up to him. "Myrcella should be surrounded by her family before she goes, not traitor's daughters." She had a sweet face, and Sandor tried holding his attention there instead, but a sweet face could be just as enticing as a sweet pair of tits, so he resorted to starting straight ahead and responding in grunts and scowls. The girl seemed hurt by this coldness, and quieted her chirping for a while.

The Hound found it better this way. _Let the girl keep her thoughts to herself._ It was bad enough he had to guard her, seeing her while bathing or dressing. It did him no favors that whenever he was commanded to hit her, he softened his blows. And it certainly helped not that when he threw his cloak around her shoulders, trying to cover her quivering breasts, her hand had closed around his and her eyes gazed up with desperate need. Every man around her beat her, lied to her, or lusted after her. She seemed to sense already that Sandor was softened towards her, and so she turned to him for comfort. He could not have it that way.

'_Let the little bird think I despise her. Let her think I only think of speaking to her when I'm in my cups.' _He wouldn't have her weakening him any further. He'd already told her too many things, too many secrets: secrets about his past, about his scars, about his family. The next secrets to come spilling out of his mouth could be the ones to betray his lust.

They walked toward the horses which stood saddled to carry the procession to see the Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. Joffrey was far ahead, impatient and prancing about on his horse, surrounded by goldcloaks and bannermen keeping an eye on him and his shrewd-faced mother. "Will you ride beside me?" The Stark girl looked back as she was helped onto her horse, guided by the hands of a faceless man in armor who held the chestnut mare's bridle.

"There are other men here to protect you, Girl." He turned from her as she perched atop the horse, exposing the twisted, scared side of his face. _'Let her look on that a while, and remember it when she asks me near her again.' _

"There are men here who would beat me." At that, he looked at her, and saw the woman Joffrey failed to see: the strong wolf of Winterfell who knew the truth, but usually knew better than to speak it.

"_I _would beat you, Girl." He took his hound's helm from under his arm and pulled it over his head. The visor could not hide the sight of her face, devoid of its soft red flush, the eyes once again flat and all the fierceness of the wolf snuffed out by his low snarl.

"My place is with the King."


	2. Chapter 2

**[[ A/N: To old readers, I have updated Ch 1 with some small minor changes that aren't really necessary to go re-read but just make the Chapter better over all :) **

**Also, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed and followed! I am really hoping to get into the character of the Hound explore him more, and make things believable in his and Sansa's relationship, and while I am mostly following the original storyline, you will notice I'm focussing more on 'new' scenes than re-telling ones from the show, since we all already know what happened there :) Also, sorry this chapter took so long . . . I have a lot of scenes in mind, so I actually got most of the third chapter written while going back and forth between it and this chapter, so Chapter 3 should be up much sooner! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and Sandor's POV, and I promise, things will continue to heat up . . . ) ]]**

**Chapter 2: **

"You're safe now little bird... You're safe."

Screams tore through the throngs of bodies that filled Flea Bottom, pulsing and shoving and raving mad. Inside a filthy hut, dirt flooring was covered in piss, littered with straw, stained with blood and body parts. The Hound stood inside, scraping his blade clean against the tunic of a man split near in half. And upon his shoulder, the slim body of Sansa Stark trembled weakly as she sobbed into his back.

"Hush now, little bird." Her soft weeping was louder in his ears than the horrific screams that filled the muddy passageways of the city slums.

It had not been hard to kill those men. When he ripped the door from its rotting hinges, he had done so because he heard her cries through the thin wooden slats. When he drove his sword through one man's spine and out his ribs, or when he split the second from neck to navel, or rid the third of his arm and his life, it was as easy as any battlefield kill. _'This girl belongs to the King.' _He killed the men with little rage, and no remorse. '_They put their hands on His Grace's property.' _He had hardly heard the screams. _'I serve His Grace.'_ Sandor thought of his duty, his obedience, and the crown, as he snuffed the life from the screaming vermin. So long as he did not think of Sansa, it was easy. So long as he did not think of what those men meant to do to her, the harm they meant to cause her, or the thought of their stinking cocks ravaging her, it was fine. He thought of his duty to his idiotic child of a King and the killing came easily.

The hard part came when he turned to the Stark girl, trembling in tatters and tears on the filthy floor, and took her into his arms.

"You're safe now little bird."

Sandor had swung her onto his shoulder then, and she had gasped, her waist bent over his broad armor, her hands clutching at the cloak on his back. She lay there now, limp and silent, as he strode through the masses of angry, starving, men and women. A few more found death on his sword, falling as they reached for the girl on his shoulder or the cloak on his back. It failed to matter; The Hound kept his blade wet with blood, and brought Sansa Stark back to safety.

_'Safety. Aye, saved from rats, only to be delivered to lions.' _As he bent forward to let the trembling girl down, he looked for his shit-stained King. Sandor was unsurprised to find His Grace almost entirely clean, devoid of all filth beside the permanent dung heap that was his face. While his betrothed had nearly been raped by a group of raving men, Joffrey had been having his doublet and shoes wiped down. He looked a pretty fucking picture as he scoffed at the sight of his shaken wife-to-be, who clung to Sandor's chest even as he tried to put her down.

"Where's my horse?" Sandor snarled, looking around to avoid Sansa's face. Her slender fingers were perched on the armor of his breastplate, but he jerked away, rounding to the left so his scars twisted in a raw red grimace in Sansa's direction. "If anything happened to my fucking horse-,"

The Imp, the Queen, even His-Fucking-Grace-Joffrey, took Sansa from there. Sandor stalked away in search of Stranger, knowing a raw anger lingered inside him. He'd found the Stark girl, he'd found his horse, and he'd even gotten to wet his blade. But hot rage twisted in his chest as he mounted his horse, disposing of the three beggar children that had tried to claim the steed by barring his teeth and sending them running away. As Sandor thundered through the square, back to the King's side, he craved a fuck and a drink to cool his blood. He kept Sansa Stark out of mind and focused on his other need, urging Stranger forward and leaving a trail of torn up earth in the muck behind.

. . . . .

"I heard half of Flea Bottom got a taste of the Queens cunt." Roars of laughter filled the dingy inn where Sandor glowered over a pint of beer.

"Not the Queen," a Knight slurred, gesturing emphatically as he corrected the commoner with whom he spoke. "The Queen-to-be, that little Stark girl." Men laughed around him, leaning in, spilling ale down their chests and into their beards as the Knight spun stories with drunken bravado.

Sandor ignored the fools. After battle, men often sought solace in drink and comraderey. The mob of Flea Bottom hardly counted as a battle, but he'd heard a few baseborn men with the word 'Ser' tacked onto their names had ended up splattered and broken below, so those who survived drank heavily to remind themselves of the _beauty_ and _glory_ of life.

The Hound drank alone. Not well liked, he was not entirely despised either. When he sought out companionship he could find it, but tonight he wanted none, the piss-colored ale in his mug the only company he desired. _'Oh, you desire another's company, Dog_.' He took a deep swallow to quell his thoughts. The frightened eyes of a sweet little bird fluttered in his mind, until a long draught of bitter ale washed thoughts of her away.

" - but just her arse," the Knight was saying loudly when Sandor stood up again. Making his way towards the high oaken bar where the loudest group of fools spun stories, Sandor scowled and slammed the clay stein down. The handle cracked off in his hand. No one noticed but the bar wench, who gave not a peep as she swept the broken pieces off the bar and into her apron, fetching him another brimming serving and avoiding his face the entire time. '_Watch yourself, Dog.'_ He took the pint in hand and brought the liquid to his mouth. The Hound bristled within.

"I hear she had 50 men." Sandor leaned against the bar, his shoulders hunched as he took deep drinks of the yellow filth. _ 'Go back to your pen,'_ he told himself, wiping froth and wetness from his mouth with the back of a gloved hand.

"What was it like, Clegane?" Part of him had known that by coming near the fools, he would attract their questions. When he carted the Stark girl back to safety, his mind had been singularly focused on keeping her from harm. But as it was, there had been men with their eyes on her, standing about like useless stumps and watching so they would have stories to tell in lowly inns later.

"Did you get a good look at her bits?" One of the men grinned, and The Hound felt a boiling desire to break the last few teeth still lingering in his rotting maw.

Sandor drained his stein and sat it down on the bar, reflecting how he should have brought it down on the man's head. "Aye, I got a good look at her bits," he rumbled, lip curled. The common man paled beneath the Hound's tremulous grey glare. "And at the men who held her. Three shit-caked, simpering idiots with flimsy cocks and rotting teeth like yours." As he straightened up from the bar, Sandor's hand reflexively went to his sword, and the inn's jovial sounds dried up and withered like husks. "Three skeevish rats, and not a single man here was brave enough to face them. Nor any other man." The Knights at the bar shrank under his heavy stare, turning from the hideous mess of his face to hide their shame in the bosoms of the whores in their laps. "If a one of you _Sers_ had a sliver of courage, perhaps you'd know what the Stark girl had under her frock." He sneered at them, watching the grimaces that most could not hide as his scars twisted and twitched.

'_Even after this, the little bird probably still thinks these knights are filled with honor and good_.' Sandor took a step forward and men and women parted before him. He left the inn with his head annoyingly clear, not nearly as drunk as he had wanted to be_. 'If I was deeper into my cups, I'd have bloodied the lot of them_.' As he stalked home through the lively nighttime noises, he wrestled with his thoughts, wanting to keep the Stark girl from his mind. She seemed to always be there, soft and pale and close to tears. He wanted her as badly as any of those men, and it filled him with self loathing so scorching he almost craved the fires that had once ruined his face.

'_They all thing my ugliest parts are on the outside.'_ He brought his hands up to his head, pushing his fingers through shoulder length black hair and letting the night breeze lick the warped flesh of his face. _'Perhaps if she knew the twisted dog inside, the little bird would know better than to come near me.' _

As he stripped in his room, letting armor fall where it wanted and kicking clothes into tangled piles on the floor, Sandor thought of the weeping girl. His cock hardened and he cursed, slamming his sheathed blade down on a nightstand that shuddered from the force. He would _not_ have her with torn clothes and tears in a dirty hut. He would _not_ have the thought of her tits, bared before a court of knights who gave her bruises just out of sight. _'I may be a Dog, but not so low as a rat, or a Knight_.'

Sandor fell into his bed, thinking not of Sansa, but instead of the men who would ravage the little bird. He focused on the sight of his sword splitting through flesh and bone, over, and over, and over. In his mind, his blade thrust through throat and stomach and cloth of gold. And for one more night, he pushed aside his lust for Sansa Stark, giving in to sleep with thoughts of blood wet on his blade.


	3. Chapter 3

**[[AN: 3 Thank you for the kind reviews, follows, and favorites everyone. I am totally open to critiques if you see anything wrong or have any opinions, but your reviews have all done a great job of inspiring me further so thank you! I hope you remain flustered and impatient as my fic takes you through some frustrating ups and downs ;) ]] **

**Chapter 3:**

After the mob, the Hound had found it in his best interests to avoid Sansa Stark. Whenever he saw her, he was aroused by her looks, and filled with rage at the thought of the men who would have her or hurt her. '_You would have her, Dog.' _He ended up frustrated and filled with need to fuck and kill whenever she was about, so he did his best to put himself - and his thoughts - elsewhere.

As it was, Sandor did not see her there at the end of the hall, and did not become aware of her until she nearly brushed against him. His first instinct was to scowl - it _was_ his most natural expression. But aside from his usual inclination to be unhappy, Sandor was also vexed at being so caught up in his thoughts of avoiding the little bird, that he had ended up right beside her.

Stepping back, he curled his lip harshly. "Out of your cage alone, little bird?"

She turned pink in the cheeks and nose, scrunching up her shoulders so her hair bounced slightly against her breasts. "I was looking for you." Her eyes flickered across his face, then quickly down to the ground where they remained demurely lowered beneath her eyelashes. They were alone in the passageway, cold grey stone on each side around them.

Sandor's hand twitched against the hilt of his sword, his face stoic as he took in the sight of her. "Aye, but not looking at me." She shifted, glancing off to the side. "Still can't look at me, can you little bird?"

It surprised him when she did, raising her eyes and her chin just slightly to give him the curtesy of her stare. He closed his fingers distractedly against the hilt of his sword, finding the blade comforting as her soft look washed over him and caused a distinct discomfort in his groin. "I never thanked you," she mustered, drawing herself up with some sudden courage. Sandor narrowed his eyes, yet she drew nearer still. He remained unmoved, back straight, hand tight upon his blade as she timidly lifted a hand from her waist and tentatively placed it on his arm. "You were so . . . " she struggled to keep her eyes on her face, but the little bird had been trained well. "Brave."

Her voice was a soft rush that went straight to his cock. As he looked down at her, he knew something about his behavior had made the little bird bold. Her hand lay across his forearm, her face turned up towards his, and her fucking teats in that fucking frock rose and fell so distractingly that he forgot his words for a moment. But when words returned to him, they came with a Hound's bite.

"A dog doesn't need courage to chase off rats," he rasped, removing his arm from her touch. Her fingers hovered in the air uncertainly, before her hand dropped to her side.

"I was only trying to thank you . . . " She looked wounded. Sandor felt fucked either way; if he was soft with the girl, she would keep coming to him with these sweet little peeps and gestures of gratitude. If he was cruel to her, he was forced to suffer the pained, lonely look in her eyes.

"I don't want your thanks girl. I enjoyed killing those men." He took a heavy step forward, his footfalls echoing in the passageway and causing her to take a startled step back. "Killing is the sweetest thing there is."

But Sansa seemed unconvinced. "Those men did not want to kill me." Sandor clenched his jaw. "What they wanted . . . " Looking away would make him weak, so he suffered to watch as she nervously brought her hands up and fiddled with the auburn hair that ended just above her rounded teats. "It wasn't to kill me."

"No girl." He stepped forward again and she broke from her thoughts, dropping her hands away from her breasts where his eyes had been hungrily drawn. "They wanted to fuck you. To them, that was sweeter than killing. But have no illusions-," Her eyes were fearsomely wide as she looked up at him. "They would have killed you when they were done."

He meant to frighten her. She was frightened of Joffrey, of the Kingsguard, of ragged beggars who held her down and wanted to wet their filthy cocks on her virgin cunt, but she seemed to be loosing her fear of him._ 'Naive girl, she isn't thinking straight.' _Sandor meant to correct her folly. He had kept from thinking of fucking her this long, he did not intend to have himself weakened by her breathless little whispers of gratitude.

"But, you . . . " She clasped her hands together, fingers twisting lightly together. "You saved me. You wouldn't let them hurt me."

"Only because I serve His Grace," Sandor snarled back. "I know how unhappy the King would be if some rat got a taste of his betrothed's cunt before he did."

"And what of. . . a Dog?" Sansa's voice melted inside his skin.

Arousal set in before understanding, his cock awakening at what her voice implied. '_The little bird has gone mad.'_ "What of a dog?" He replied, and stepped forward again. Still, his large form startled her, and she moved back in response as if in a dance. Her reaction made him smirk cruelly. "What could a Hound want with a foolish, weak little bird?"

She trembled, dropping her eyes, as he knew she would. "What those men wanted," she answered meekly. "What all men want."

"And you would offer it to me?" Sandor gave a great, barking laugh that rumbled in his chest like a saw scraping over wood. He cursed himself even as he spoke; he knew he was slipping. But the closer he came, the more flushed his little bird got. By now she was burning with warmth, and it seemed the more he denied her the more flushed she became. It was no good. As sure as he was that the Stark child had lost her mind, he could not help but want her. "You were wet for your betrothed once, do you remember that?" Her shoulders tensed at the mention of the King, and perhaps with embarrassment at the mention of arousal.

"But you . . . you saved me. You protect me . . . " Sandor heard the confusion ebbing into her voice. He knew what he had to do.

Three times he stepped forward, driving her back against the wall where she pressed back with a gasp. "Foolish little bird," Sandor rasped. "You don't know what it is you want." But he knew what he wanted, and it took all his strength to keep the Hound inside at bay.

The Hound snarled over the girl, casting her pretty face in shadow as he tightened the space between them and kept her flush against the wall. "Do you think me kind, girl? Soft?" She had her palms pressed flat against the cold grey stone, and she trembled. "Do you think I would take you to bed like one of your gallant Knights and gently fuck you with tender words of love?

"Aye girl, I would fuck you, and it would be sweeter than killing." Little breaths started to shake Sansa's chest as the Hound lowered his voice to a sultry rasp. "But it would not be soft, or kind. I could split you in half with my cock as easily as with my sword. I would fuck you bloody girl."

By now Sansa's eyes were squeezed tightly closed, and her face was turned from him even though her eyes were shut. "Why are you so hateful?" Sansa shook her head desperately, fingertips curling feebly against the rock behind her. "I only wanted to thank you," she implored.

Sandor found little joy in this torture. But as it was, every word he said was true. The thought of sinking into the girl, her blue eyes shimmering with desire, her body wet and wonton, was unbearable. Given the chance he would touch her, kiss her, fuck her. _'You have the delusions of a sick hound, and she the delusions of a foolish girl.'_ The Hound had to frighten the girl so she would know better than to come near rabid dogs again.

"What could a little bird like you do to thank me?" The Hound reached up from his sword and took hold of her chin. He yanked it up with such force that she cried out, and for a moment his resolve flickered. But when she stared up at him, brave through the flush of tears, he twisted his face into a mocking sneer and made her shudder at the horrific sight.

"You're a virgin bitch, promised to the fucking King. So your cunt's off limits . . . at least until he gets a few uses out of you." Turning her face to the side, he ran his eyes down her body in a hard, mocking stare. "Your tits are too small, and those hands of yours aren't fit to milk a cow, much less a man." He released her jaw with a jerk, turning his hand and brushing the curled backs of his knuckles against her plump lips. "And this mouth of yours seems only good for crying and peeping. You have nothing for me, little bird."

He thought he had convinced her, and perhaps himself. She dropped her eyes and sagged against the wall where she trembled silently. Yet as he straightened again, pulling away from the tense space between them, a soft whisper broke from her. "Nothing. . . " she repeated vacantly. "Nothing you could do to me at all . . . " Her tremulous voice, along with the short, rapid rise and fall of her breasts, spurned him to answer where no words should have came.

"Oh, no little bird." The Hound came unleashed. "There is much _I_ could do to _you_." The breath seemed to catch in Sansa's throat, her chest suddenly still as he closed much of the distance between them and let his wine-stained breath brush against her face. "I can do more with hands than hit you. I can do more with my mouth than mock you and treat you cruelly." Sandor could not stop the Hound; the Hound that panted and strained and betrayed his desire. He wanted to scare her, but he could not stop the harsh need that grated in his voice. " I could take that little cunt of yours with my mouth and make you tremble. I could use my tongue to make you weep. Aye, little bird . . . " a smirk twisted half of his face as he pulled back from the girl who struggled for breath beneath him.

"There is much I could do to you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

She sat on a small chest at the foot of the bed, weeping as he beheld her crimson shame. The torn sheet and roughly askew bedroll only served to bring greater attention to the red, blossoming womanhood she had tried so hard to hide. Sandor stood silently as she wept, understanding how she must feel when she struggled to turn her eyes to his face. The red stain marked her womanhood, and he was loathe to look upon it.

Sandor had entered the room only moments prior. After his crudeness with the girl in the hallway the day before, only drinking would sate him. The excess of sour red allowed him to forget: his desires, his roughness, and her fearful eyes looking up at him with confusion and pain before she had fled from his taunts. Aye, the wine had let him forget, but had also caused him to forget about his impending watch duty in the morning. With a painfully throbbing head, he had stalked his way through the halls, pausing only when he saw the door to Sansa's room open and heard the little peeping from within.

When he entered she had turned to him, her face wet with tears and yet bright with hope. It became obvious she had been expecting another, for the light went out of her, and she stepped back with arms outstretched as if to hide the mark with her slender form. "What are you doing here," she sobbed hopelessly. "Go away, go away!" As the Hound moved forward she moved back, mimicking their dance of the day before. But today there were no whispers, no soft hands on armor, no shy fluttering of eyelashes. Today, there were no harsh, cruel words laced with snarls, no mocking taunts. Today, there were only tears as the little bird tried to hide the mark that would seal her fate.

In the end, she sank onto the chest and sobbed while he stood silently over her bed. And there she sat, crying, until her hand maiden burst into the room. '_Here's the one she hoped for.' _ Sandor saw the looks: the beseeching gaze from Sansa and the helpless look of defeat from the other. He watched as she turned her face away and hunched over her belly, hugging her legs as each sob ruined him.

The words in the hall had been nothing compared to this. He had come in the cruelest moment of her body's betrayal, and would now deliver her secret to the Queen. '_Surely the little bird must hate me now.'_

There was no joy at that thought. The Hound left her to her handmaid, and felt only death inside.

For the next two days, Sandor distracted himself by preparing for war. He trailed Joffrey when he was called, preparing himself for the possibility of glancing the little bird at his side. But even the arrogant child King seemed distracted by the impending battle and made no calls for Sansa Stark. The news of her bleeding had spread through the court; should they win the battle, a wedding would be next. Thinking of that made Sandor feel more frustration and hot, wracking emotions than thoughts of Sansa alone, so he hacked at training dummies and squires alike until his body burned with nothing but pain and exhaustion.

"Dammit, Dog!" The Knight he had been sparring with spat a mouthful of blood on the dusty ground and cradled his seeping cheek. "Do you mean to finish me before the battle, or would you kindly give Stannis a fucking chance?" Sandor's tourney blade had come down on the side of the Knight's face twice: once to knock off his ill fitting helm, and again to explode the soft fibers of his cheek into a messy spray of blood. Sticky with sweat, Sandor spun the blade in his hand and grunted. He knew he had violated most expectations of training practice, but when there was a battle looming, holding back felt foolish. And impossible.

Sandor fought bare chested against the armored Knight. As His Grace's sworn shield Sandor had been required to have his armor, his clothing, and his white cloak cleaned, and so he fought shrouded in nothing but sweat and silence. The day was cool, but moisture dripped off him from cheek to collarbone. Dirt stuck to his broad, muscled chest, and when streaks of sweat ran down him they created pale rivulets in the dust, exposing skin and scars alike. His trousers were black leather, his boots thick cow's hide and dirtied with the filth of many battles, and the blood of many men. The mob days prior had torn his ivory cloak and made it heavy with blood. The King needed a well groomed Dog at his side when they rode through the ranks before the battle, not a savage Hound. The thought of cleaning women trying to scrape old blood and dirt off his armor amused Sandor. _ 'They may well have known some of the men whose blood they clean off my mail.'_

"Perhaps you should be quicker," he snarled finally, thrusting the sword into the bulky tourney sheath at his hip. "It won't take Stannis to kill you. I'd wager one of his Knight's squire's would finish you just fine." The hound grinned doggedly, openmouthed and mocking, and his sparring partner stalked away nursing his wound. He was in a better mood. Fighting distracted him, and the promise of killing tonight kept his mind occupied. Wiping his forehead with a muscled forearm and pushing his lank, dark hair back from his eyes, he looked around for his next match.

Instead, he found Joffrey, striding toward him across the dusty yard with the golden crown glinting atop his head. "Your Grace," he growled deeply, sinking to one knee. Kneeling before Robert had been tolerable. Aye, the man had gotten fat and foolish in his age, but he had won his war. Kneeling before this boy-king in embroidered crimson was harder, and Sandor never bent the knee with such reluctance before. At the Tourney of The Hand, he had fallen to his knee, head bowed, sword in hand, the moment Robert's breath left his mouth. Under Joffrey, he was expected to react with the same obedience and haste when commanded to strike Sansa Stark.

"Dog," the boy sneered, clipping the word with a haughty sniff. "Have you seen my Lady?"

Sandor was already scowling, but mention of Sansa made the glare deepen. '_Out here in the yard?'_ "No, Your Grace," he replied, standing once again. He towered over the boy, who looked around stupidly as if the girl might suddenly appear simply because he sought her.

"Pity. I have something I want to show her." The boy excitedly produced a sword, the steel shivering against the scabbard as it was drawn, like a shrill woman's cry. He looked up at Sandor expectantly. Sandor looked down, his expression unchanging, wondering what it was the boy sought. Approval? Praise? He felt revulsion when he looked at the boy. Revulsion, wrapped in a husk of loyalty that lingered despite his disgust. There was something else too. Envy coiled about in Sandor's chest, making him burn in ways that had nothing to do with the ache from battle.

"It is a good sword, Your Grace," he offered, eying the intricate gold work and the flashing ruby held between the jaws of a lion on the sword's hilt. Beautiful perhaps, but good for little in a battle._ 'Much like its master.' _But that was not the sword's purpose. Joffrey would never see battle, would never see blood. That was what Hounds were for.

Pleased with his Dog's response, Joffrey sloppily sheathed the sword and placed his hands on his hips. When he puffed out his chest, Sandor thought about how small he was, and wondered if a strike from him would even hurt Sansa, should his Grace ever become brave enough to try.

"My mother says all the men aught to bathe before a battle," Joffrey said disdainfully. This made Sandor laugh, a rough grating noise that seemed to cause discomfort in the surrounding men.

"Does your Lady Mother know I only mean to get dirty again?"

"She says you are to escort me to battle." Sandor's mirth was gone, and with it much of the good release from fighting all day. _ 'A clean cloak and mail aren't enough, they mean to have me groomed as well.' _

"Aye, Your Grace," he responded, waiting obediently for his leave to go before turning away. Convincing himself a bath would feel good on muscles made sore and weary, he tried to keep his thought on the battle ahead. But distraction was easier with a sword in his hand, with metal clashing about him and the sound of rough shouts in his ears. His mood worsened as he trod back towards the stables to collect the armor and weapons he had left in a pen with Stranger. Mulling over his reluctance to leave the shadowy black steed unprotected in a wooden pen while the battle raged, Sandor was deep into his scowl when he saw Sansa's handmaiden lounging in a sunny spot just outside the stables.

"What are you doing here?" Shae looked up as he growled down at her, silently surveying him for longer than most others dared She looked up into his face with eyes that held more knowledge than they should, squinting one eyes at him as he cast her slender form in shadow.

"My Lady wanted to see the horses before she is shut away during the battle." Bangles clinked along the forgein girl's wrist as she brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun behind Sandor's head. When she had dashed up the stairs and into Sansa's room to find the Hound looming there on the morn of her blood, the bracelets had clinked then as well. The Hound felt they mocked him as a wicked smile flitted around the edges of the girl's lips.

"The girl can't go for a ride," he said gruffly. "The city is dangerous, even the nearby forests are overrun with rats seeking safety from the nearing slaughter."

Shae tilted her head, reclining and relaxing as she dropped her hand and shifted it back to the ground to support her where she lazed. "Who said she is going for a ride? Maybe she wants a horse to give her a few kicks in the belly since you haven't been around to do it for her."

Sandor felt his nostrills flare as he tried to keep the rest of his face composed. "Watch what you say to me, girl," he snarled. "I only hit her at His Grace's command. There are plenty of other men who take joy in it."

Shae stood slowly and fixed him with a stare for a long time. "And where have you been? You should be around to keep her safe from these men. From this King ."

Scars twitched as Sandor glowered at her. Women did not talk to him this way. '_Cheeky bitch_.' She moved to push past Sandor with a swish of pink silk, but the truth of her words bit at him. Reaching out, he snatched up her small arm in his hand, tightening his grip and feeling his fingers touch on each side of her slender limb.

"You will not speak of her to me." The Hound snarled from between his teeth, pulling the serving girl close and looming above her. "I know my _fucking_ duty, and it's not to her." Shae narrowed her eyes against him, resisting not at all, even as his grip threatened to bruise her.

"No?" She chided fiercely. "What good is your duty to this King, who only wants to hurt her? You avoid her, and what good does it do her?"

"Little birds should not count on dogs to protect them, when they would sooner bite them to ribbons."

"_Little birds_ are women grown." Startled at hearing his own pet name for the Stark girl thrown back at him, Sandor released his grip. Hot white marks showed against Shae's olive skin at first, but he knew they would soon darken. He had bruised enough women to know. She yanked her arm far away from him. "You saw proof of that."

For a while after she stalked away, Sandor felt unsettled at having handled her that way. _'Apparently I don't need commands to lay my hands on young girls now.' _ His mirth from the sparring was gone, leaving him only with his sweat-slick skin and dirt covered clothing. Knowing Sansa waited within, he tried to quell the anger brimming inside him. It was bad enough he had mishandled her handmaiden, he didn't need to wound the girl as well.

As Sandor slammed the stable door open with one broad hand, he saw Sansa standing there, her hair loose and down about her shoulders as she stood at the end of the stable. The sound made her jump and startled half the horses in their pens, but the sweetest sound was the shocked trill of his little bird as she clutched absently at the air level to her chest and looked wide eyed at the source of the sound. When she saw him, her cheeks burned red and she turned away, but he saw the way her hands shook as she patted the horse in the stall with her, and the way her teeth dragged upon her bottom lip over and over again.

She was wearing some sort of soft pink thing, and a shawl about her shoulders kept most of her form - and all of her teats - from view. Sandor stalked down the aisle, stopping just shy of her to open the pen that held his massive black stallion. As he retrieved his clothing and true blade from the hay where he had laid them prior to training, he was aware of the sweet fragrance of lavender that cut through his own musk of sweat and wine.

Turning to her as he tossed his leather scabbard over his shoulder, Sandor fixed Sansa with a cold stare. He knew what she saw._ 'Scars and scowls, hideous enough to make her drop that pitiable stare_.' But she did not look away, and instead he became aware of the way her eyes lingered on his body, the flush in her cheeks causing him all sorts of confusion. She seemed distracted, lips every so slightly parted as her eyes swept over his arms, and his chest splattered with dirt and wet with sweat.

"Never seen a man fresh from a fight before?" The redness creeping down her neck and into the modest folds of her shawl amused him.

"I have, Ser," she answered tersely, finally dropping her eyes and absently patting the horse that whinnied gently against her forehead. "My brothers fought oft, in Winterfell."

At this, Sandor scoffed. "Boys fights are nothing compared to the true battles of men. I'll take it your brothers never really cut a man." She was paling as he spoke. "Never split him open and saw what it was he carried inside." Sansa turned her face upwards and tightened her eyes.

"But _I_ have." Her eyes were hard as she looked up at him. "I have seen. I saw my father's head split from his body. And I saw the blood of those men you split open when they tried to-," she faltered, as if frightened by the strength of her own voice, Sandor forgot how much she had seen. Already, she knew the stink of blood.

Sandor suspected she had had enough of his cruelty, and she remained silent as he took up his things and left the pen. As the door swung shut behind him, he looked at her, no more than a few strides away, and realized why the stables seemed so still.

"In here alone, little bird?" The thought was disquieting. The stable boys were gone to hide in safety, or to prepare for battle; the guards had better things to do, and the horses were tied in their pens. Alone, Sansa was prey to any sort of man who saw fit to touch her, hit her, take her.

Sandor thought of how he could take her. There, with no one to see them, with no one to stop him. How he could fuck her in the hay, like some spoil of war won before the battle had even started. He thought of her clutching his back, small hands pushing at his chest and pulling at his hair. He thought of her crying out, small round breasts arching up to him as he thrust inside her wetness again, and again.

He shook his head. His blood was hot after a day of fighting. 'She's no spoil of war, Dog,' he snarled within, trying to still the rolling boil of his blood. The Stark girl with a highborn, and his King's betrothed.

It didn't stop him from aching to take her there in the stable, against a wooden post with her legs around his hips as he held the small of her back and pushed deep inside her.

"My handmaiden is waiting for me." He realized she was answering his question, but was grateful that she did not look at him, as his cock had gone stiff and he would hardly move for fear of betraying his arousal. Sandor thought of his she had come to him in the hall, uncertain and fluttering, curious of his wants and naive enough to offer to satisfy them. But those kind of thoughts did not keep a little bird safe, and above all else he wanted to keep her from harm.

"Best get back to her, girl," he rasped, and finally, suddenly, she looked up.

"I'm not a girl," she responded fiercely, clutching the shawl at her chest. "No anymore. You can't call me that."

Sandor saw that she was trying to assert some command over him, and responded with a gruff bark of a laugh. "And I'm no Ser," he said darkly. "But that's never stopped you from calling me one."

"No," the girl responded softly. "_Dog_' you'd prefer to be called. '_Hound_'." Bewildered, she looked up at him. "Why do you let them call you that?" Her voice was strong, demanding and unwavering with the strength of the Direwolf. "All of them; His Grace, his men, those Knights you despise. Why?"

"A Dog is the most loyal creature there is," Sandor responded, lowering his voice to a soft rasp. He saw the girl tremble, as if a shiver passed through her when his voice came to her ear. "A hound will die for you, but never lie to you." She was looking away from him again, and he could not stand it, so he reached forward with a dirty hand and gripped her fair chin between her fingers. She gasped as he pulled her jaw forward, forcing her to look upwards at the horrible mess that was his face. He thought of how he had forced her to look at him just like this in the hallway, and could not understand the look shimmering in her azure eyes.

"But you did lie." Her voice was a surprising strength in the quiet of the stable. "You told me those horrible, horrible things when I only meant . . . I only meant to thank you for . . . saving me." The desire came back to Sandor in a sudden rush.

"Dammit girl." He dropped her chin, but still she looked up at him. "I never lied. I told you I would fuck you, and I meant it."

"You told me you would hurt me-"

"And I would!" The voice that burst out of him was nearly a roar. She stepped back, looking frightened, yet holding her gaze steady as he towered over her. He wouldn't mean to hurt her. Perhaps he would try to be gentle or kind, to go slow with her and coax her into enjoyment. And it wouldn't matter. He had been with enough women to know the sight of him made them cringe, and the size of him brought them to tears. The little bird seemed to think his bravery earned him adoration in her eyes, but he knew were he to really climb on top of her, huge and scarred and stinking of wine and death, she would realize her folly and descend into tears as he fucked her bloody.

"You won't hurt me." Sansa stood trembling, her eyes on his face. "You protect me. You won't . . . " She held her head high and spoke without wavering. "You won't hurt me."

Sandor said nothing, turning from the girl and pushing the stable doors open, making his way halfway through the yard before he heard them slam shut together. She was mixing him up. She was making it hard to fight, to think, to breathe. And her words hung in his ears, soft and clear and bolder than anything else she had said.

_You won't hurt me. _

Alone, in the warmth of water that steamed up to his chest, his thoughts stayed with Sansa like a dog trailing at the heel of its master. He had hit her at Joffrey's command, and he had said cruel things to hurt her. But still, the girl seemed to see him as she saw her precious knights, pure of heart and brave, with desires only to protect and uphold those they protected. But he had other desires. Desires that brought her unbidden to his mind and made him groan as he sank his head back into the water.

'_These dreams mean to kill me_.' He poured water over his head, and reached for a skin of wine. The cork rolled to join others on the floor as the Hound drank deeply. He wanted to protect her from the men who would do her harm. From Joffrey, from Meryn, from knights, from filthy sewer rats. '_From Dogs.'_

The wine did not help, and the dreams would not leave him. Sandor thought of battle, tilting his head back into the warmth and wondering if death would not be a better release.

**[[A/N Wow, thank you guys very much for your patience. I am super excited about the Blackwater chapter coming up next; That's actually why this chapter is so long, and took a little longer, since I wasn't sure how to split the battle day up. Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for your reviews! ]]**


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